


his hands they shake

by bronweathanharthad



Category: Dunkirk (2017)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Gen, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-10
Updated: 2020-11-10
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:35:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27485122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bronweathanharthad/pseuds/bronweathanharthad
Summary: in which Shivering Soldier experiences trauma-induced hand tremors
Comments: 2
Kudos: 6
Collections: 'Hands'





	his hands they shake

**Author's Note:**

> -title is from "The War" by SYML
> 
> -tw for mention of vomit in the final section

His arms strain as he pulls survivors onto the rowboat. These nighttime rescues are starting to wear him down, but there is no use in complaining when everyone is just as exhausted. He just has to put his weariness behind him and get as many men safely back to shore as he can.

They row through the waters until the boat reaches maximum capacity, and he directs the rowers back to the beach despite their protestations. The Channel is too wide for a boat of this size to cross, and the boat offers no shelter from potential attacks.

Some of the men are fighting off sleep, and others have already lost that battle. He waits until they are almost at shore to rouse them with a gentle shake or a shoulder squeeze. They need sleep when they can get it.

Another officer volunteers to take his place on the rowboat’s next rescue trip. To his dismay, this leaves him with a few minutes of relative quiet. The passing days mean more bodies and abandoned gear on the shore, more reminders of the frenzy of the evacuation.

He finds a place to sit down for a few minutes and massages his temples with slightly trembling fingertips – when did they start trembling? If he doesn’t doze off soon, he will have to find something to do.

His hands still ache from the failed effort to open the ship’s door. All of those men dead because he wasn’t strong enough.

It is all too silent now. Silent except for the muted rustling of waves, waves that were just loud enough to conceal—

Drops of salt water cascade down his face like tears, and damp hair clouds his vision. But he can’t will his hands to brush aside his hair. They will not move from his knees hugged to his chest. All they can do is tremble.

His hands are cold under the blanket, but some cover is better than leaving them exposed. He wants nothing more than to retreat entirely into the blanket, to shield his eyes from the endless water and the nervous stares of his rescuers, but he has to settle for keeping his arms warm.

Someone approaches him with something in his hand. He bats it away awkwardly. Has he lost control of his body as well as his mind?

Someone else says something about being bombed.

“U-boat,” he murmurs. Giving voice to it causes his hands to tremble anew.

A distant rumbling jolts him to hypervigilance. Smoke is on the horizon, and it’s getting closer.

“Where are we going?”

The captain informs him calmly – how can he be so calm about this? – that the little civilian boat is going to Dunkirk.

He cannot go there, he simply cannot, he cannot give words to his horror, he can’t say that he can’t go, only that he won’t. It’s suicide, he will die, everyone on this boat will die, surely the captain sees that.

The captain promises to plot a course and invites him to get some rest below deck. If he goes below, he may not be able to save himself if— But his exhaustion wins out.

He holds the cup of fresh tea feebly. He forces himself to take a sip. His hands still quiver from the panic that threatened to build to a breaking point. He can’t stay down here, but he must, if only for a few minutes to warm up. The trembling gets worse, forcing him to put down the cup before it spills.

He stares in horror, body frozen from tension. A boy, an innocent boy, gravely injured at his hands, from his cowardice.

His faint whines pierce his years and rattle his mind. He can’t move, can’t think, can scarcely breathe. This is his fault, his fault, his—

He can’t trust himself anymore. He can’t let himself anywhere near these men. They aren’t safe around him.

His legs nearly give out as he stands, but he forces himself outside anyway.

There is only water around him. They are so far, so far from a doctor, so far from civilization, so far from any hope for that boy.

He hugs his arms to his chest. He presses his fingertips into his arms until his arms hurt. His chest hurts. He takes shaky, uneven breaths, and his wrists convulse.

He can’t cry. He can only yell at himself.

He asks the blond if the boy is all right, knowing the answer full well but asking anyways.

“No. No, he’s not.”

A frightfully close rumble causes him to shield his head with his arms. They are in the besieged waters once again.

Survivors are swimming up to the boat, but he doesn’t move to help. He can’t be here, he can’t trust himself to help, he can’t—e

Still more survivors gather. The newest ones are covered in oil. Still he can’t will himself to move. But he should. Men have looked to him to lead. What is stopping him from doing that now?

So he gets up.

He pulls one survivor onto the boat, and another, and another. This is easier than he expected. He reprimands himself for not acting sooner, but at least he is trying to do his part now. He only hopes that he isn’t doing too little too late.

The water is cold and dampens his still damp uniform. Oil soils his hands, and he can hear the panicked cries of the stranded men over the water. But he continues without pausing. They need to get as many men on board as they can.

A German plane approaches, a spitfire hot on its trail. The oil has spread too far. If they stay another second, the boat will catch fire. They have to content themselves with the men they have rescued.

He watches numbly as the German plane crashes into the water and doesn’t react as the Channel bursts into flame. It is just one of many things that will no doubt haunt his sleep.

The blond told him that the boy will be okay. He has no reason to believe it. It is too good to be true, so it must be. But he tries to make himself believe. He has to, for his sake.

He is exhausted. Despite his lingering, possibly permanent terror, he feels like he could sleep for years. The quiet of his fellow survivors tells him that they feel the same.

A plane interrupts the quiet. The RAF pilot informs the captain that the plane is a fighter. His hands find a nearby handle and cling to it as the captain instructs the blond on navigating the boat.

He shrinks into himself. The plane is so close to him. He is wide open, an easy target. He holds the handle more tightly and silently tells his wife and son that he loves them.

“Now!”

The pilot fires. He cringes as the hail of bullets whiff harmlessly over his head. The roar of the engine comes to a sudden stop.

Alive. He is alive. That plane shot right at him, and he is alive.

The captain takes his arms and helps him to his feet. He doesn’t realize that he is shaking until he feels the stillness of the captain’s touch.

The captain sets him down inside and puts his hand on his shoulder. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah.” A beat. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s all right.”

He turns one last time towards the boat the rescued him and the civilians that treated him with far more kindness than he deserved.

Two men process from the boat bearing a blanket-covered body on a stretcher.

He walks away.

The boy is dead.

He staggers.

The same hands that held new life and tried to save stranded lives took an innocent one.

He collapses.

He vomits.

He cries until he nearly vomits again, his hands shaking violently all the while, and then he cries more.


End file.
